Phoenix
by Thru Terry's Eyes
Summary: Response to a tag challenge on Hoodietime. I picked 'burns'. Dean has an accident during a hunt. Warning if burning triggers you.


This is my response to the tag challenge at Hoodietime. I had to choose between burns, pneumonia and hugs and cuddling. I took Burns. There is art to go with this at my Deviant art account:

Silver4456 dot deviantart dot com

or my LJ: thruterryseyes dot livejournal dot com

**Warning if burning triggers you.**

Phoenix

The spirit hit Dean from out of nowhere, his shotgun blasting impotently into the sky. Unable to stop himself and too close to the grave, he yelled a warning. Sam turned, eyes widening, the already lighted match spiraling from his fingers and falling into the grave. Dean managed a shove that sent Sam tumbling to one side but unable to break his fall, plunged headfirst into the hole as the wood, bones, salt, and accelerant_ whooshed_ into ignition.

He hit the open coffin with a jarring thud. It felt cold for just an instant as flames rose around him, his shocked nerve endings sending the wrong signals until the sensation licking at his skin was identified and became heat. Heat became fire, fire became pain, pain became burning and he was screaming as flames turned his clothes to ash, melted his skin and turned the left side of his body into a pyre.

Screaming Dean's name, Sam jumped into the grave. With a strength born of madness he grabbed Dean and bodily heaved his brother over the rim of the hole. His own clothes blazing, he hauled himself out, throwing his smoldering body over Dean's. Clasped tightly together, Sam rolled them violently across the ground to extinguish the flames and then half smothered Dean with the remains of his jacket, smoke and the smell of burnt flesh filling the air

Sam may have yelled and pleaded, crying and swearing, making stupid, meaningless sounds of comfort to fight against Dean's cries of agony as his flesh bubbled and hissed, but Dean was aware only of pain, of drowning in it, being consumed by an agony he didn't think was possible as his right hand clawed at Sam and he begged his brother to shoot him.

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><p>Second and third degree burns over most of his left side.<p>

Second degree burns were the most painful he had been told. Once they became third degree the nerve endings died and you couldn't feel them anymore. By the same token, second degree burns were easier to recover from. Left less scarring. His clothing had protected him to some extent, but his left side had taken the brunt of it.

He'd been lucky, they said. It had been touch and go for a while. A little longer….

Dean shrugged into his shirt, pulling the fabric carefully over his left hand and arm, the limb still tender, covered by a thin burn sleeve and glove to help minimize the scarring to his arm and hand. Some areas were more sensitive than others; a few spots had required skin grafts. More scars on the right side of his ass and thigh from that. The skin in the burned areas was tight and pulled when he moved or breathed, not quite pain, but sore and stiff. Twelve months they had said, and he would be free of the pressure garments. Only the twisted flesh to remind him every time he looked at himself.

_Bad as it was, it coulda been worse_. That's what the doctor's kept saying, what Sam kept saying. Sam's own burns, acquired pulling Dean out of the grave were healed pink; would become tan scars on his arms and hands that would fade in time.

Dean ran a self-conscious hand over the left side of his head where the hair was gone in some places, too long in others and stubbly everywhere else. Most of it would grow back, he would just have to let it all grow out a bit longer and have a ready explanation for the rest of it. Maybe he'd let it grow long enough to cover the edge of his ear which was missing the outer curve now; long enough to become a dark blonde curtain to hide the too smooth, mottled, swirls and ridges that were the nightmare the left side of his face had become. The grafts had taken, odd squares of grid-like skin attempting to fill in and draw together the scorched flesh beneath them. Even those the doctor said would improve with time.

To some extent.

After the first glance at the walking horror show he had become, Dean had almost been grateful the vision in his left eye was almost gone.

He grabbed up the black hoodie Sam had brought him and tugged it over his head. Standing with the right side of his face toward the mirror, he pulled the hood forward enough to keep the left side in shadow.

Even if his place on the team was relegated to background for now, he wouldn't get a lot of info from witnesses who took one look at him and ran screaming in the other direction. He could overcome impaired depth perception, still pull his weight.

He guessed in time he could get back to hustling pool and poker; most of the time the players were more interested in the money being thrown down than on the guy throwing it. War stories could explain it away. He'd seen people in bars who maybe looked worse. If he let his hair grow long like Sam's, maybe he could even buy a pretty girl a drink as long as he kept a mane of hair over that side of his face and had a plausible bullshit story. Maybe she'd feel sorry for him.

A pity fuck was better than nothing as long as she didn't throw up if she got a good look at him.

He could do this. This was his personal freak show now, there wasn't gonna be any waking up and finding out it was all a bad dream. He was still _him_, even if the stranger looking back at him from the mirror wasn't. He could do this….

"Dean? You okay, man?"

A gentle touch, Sam's touch, fell on his uninjured shoulder. Dean started and gasped; unaware he had sunk back down on the bed and was shaking uncontrollably, his good hand fisted in his lap, the hood slipping back as his head snapped up, right eye a perfect emerald of fear.

"I…I don't…." he made a helpless gesture with his gloved left hand.

Sam smiled, "It's alright, Dean. " he leaned close and cupped a hand around the back of Dean's head, feeling the slick, skin, the stubbly hair, feeling Dean try to turn away. "I'm not gonna tell you it's okay, because it's not. It's never gonna be okay, but it'll get better. Yeah, it changed the way you look and I know that's a big part of _what _you are, but it didn't change _who_ you are. You're my big brother, my family. I love you." Sam pushed Dean's chin up, ignoring the scars, seeing past them. "I don't know what you see when you look at yourself, but I know what I see, and nothing will ever change that. Not to me. Not to anyone who wants to get past the bullshit to see _you_." He held Dean's gaze a moment longer until Dean finally nodded shakily. When Sam straightened and reached out to pulled a wheelchair forward, Dean swiped angrily at his face. "You're all signed out," Sam continued, pretending not to notice. "Bobby's waiting for us at his place. I got your ride outta here. The Impala's waiting downstairs. I think it's time to go home. Don't you?"

Dean drew a shaky breath and bit his lip, his heartbeat slowing. Dropping into the chair, he let Sam put the bag with his belongings in his lap. He dropped his hand on the wheel when they reached the door, stopping the chair. Before Sam could speak, Dean tugged the hood back over his head and took a deep breath.

"I can do this…," he said softly.

"Yeah, Dean." Sam's words were a warm feeling next to Dean's head. "You _can_ do this. There isn't a doubt in my mind."

Swallowing, Dean nodded, straightening his shoulders. "Move it, bitch," he snapped, flapping his hand ahead of them, squawking suddenly as Sam yanked the chair back in a wheelie and shoved it forward.

"_Jerk_," Sam replied, a familiar smile in his voice.

Settling back to enjoy the ride, Dean thought about it. It could have been Sam who'd burned. Sam who was the walking freak show. A scarred testament to another failure in Dean's efforts to keep him safe.

So, yeah, bad as it was...

It really could have been worse.

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><p>End notes: I was angry whern I did the art for this. Hi guys! Been a while.<p> 


End file.
